tobacco-box. "Depends on the Union," he added. "The Union!" she cried with rising wrath. "I wish I had them here. I'd give them Union, throwing men out of work, with food the price it is. What's going to 'appen to us? Can you tell me that?" she demanded, her diction becoming a little frayed at the edges, owing to the intensity of her feelings. Bindle remained silent. He realised that he was faced by a crisis. "Nice thing you coming 'ome at eleven o'clock in the morning calmly saying you've struck," she continued angrily. "You're a lazy, good-for-nothing set of loafers, the whole lot of you, that's what you are. When you're tired of work and want a 'oliday you strike, and spend your time in public-'ouses, betting and drinking and swearing, and us women slaving morning, noon and night to keep you. Suppose I was to strike, what then?" She undid her canvas apron, and with short, jerky movements proceeded to fold and place it in the dresser-drawer. She then let down the festoons into which her skirt had been gathered about her inconspicuous hips. Mrs. Bindle was a sharp, hatchet-faced woman, with eyes too closely set together to satisfy an artist.[Pg 11] [Pg 11] The narrowness of her head was emphasised by the way in which her thin, sandy hair was drawn behind each ear and screwed tightly into a knot at the back. Her lips were thin and slightly marked, and when she was annoyed they had a tendency to disappear altogether. "How are we going to live?" she demanded. "Answer me that! You and your strikes!" Bindle struck a match and became absorbed in lighting his pipe. "What are you going to do for food?" She was not to be denied. "We're a-goin' to get strike pay," he countered, seizing the opening. "Strike pay!" she cried scornfully. "A fat lot of good that'll do. A pound a week, I suppose, and you eating like a—like a——" she paused for a satisfactory simile. "Eating me out of 'ouse and 'ome," she amended. "'Strike pay!' I'd give 'em strike pay if I had my way." "It'll 'elp," suggested Bindle.
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